


The Stroke of Midnight

by Windian



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: Gift Fic, M/M, cross-dressing, established richass relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9068395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: Just once, Richard wishes that he and Asbel would be able to dance together at one of Windor's many balls. Thankfully, he has his own fairy godmother with a rather unique solution to his problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeliveryHomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliveryHomo/gifts).



> This is a secret santa fic for DeliveryHomo. Hope you have a wonderful Christmas! <3

Snow falls in thick, heavy tufts outside the banquet hall windows, burying the city in white. The Marquess has being trying to grab his attention all night, but as she catches his hand for a dance, Richard snatches for an instance Asbel's reflection in the glass. He stands near the back of the hall, and transposed against the glass Richard thinks for a moment that he stands out in the snow. Their eyes meet.

“Honestly, your Majesty, it's such a mystery,” the Marquess titters. “The most eligible bachelor in all Windor, and you're still single.”

Richard doesn’t fail to miss the question mark in the statement. To which he agrees: yes, it is mysterious, isn't it?

The snow falls more heavily, obscuring the world with white. When Richard's gaze slides back towards the window, Asbel has vanished, too.

The whole evening, he only catches glimpses of Asbel, as fleeting as capturing a snowflake in his hands. The snow falls quicker; seems to obscure more. It sours the inside of Richard's mouth with guilt: it was him, after all, who invited Asbel to yet another ball. They exchange a few words before Richard is corralled by Lady Orlan. By the buffet table, he brushes his fingers against Asbel's, for a moment.

Normally, it's enough. But tonight, frustration is close under the surface. It feels like Asbel-- and by his extension, himself-- is vanishing.

Perhaps it's the snow.

_Phut-- phut---- phut---_

If you'll beg pardon, he tells Lady Orlan, as the band strikes up a new song. He finds Malik by the buffet, nursing a glass of wine.

“Have you seen Sophie?” Richard asks.

In response, Malik nudges his head to the buffet table, draped in a long white tablecloth. “I thins she's tired,” he says.

With the toe of his boot, Richard lifts the tablecloth. He smiles.

When the crowd is distracted, the king of Windor crouches and ducks under the table, shuffling forward. Legs crossed like a schoolboy.

Sophie is leant on her side, hair dragging across the marble. Reading a book.

“Anything good?” Richard asks.

Sophie angles her picture book so Richard can see. A woman in a beautiful gown fleeing down a staircase.

**In her hurry to escape the stroke of midnight, Cinderella lost her glass slipper.**

“Ah, Cinderella. How you liking it?”

“I'm happy she got her wish to dance with the prince,” Sophie says, as she flips the page. As she runs, Cinderella's gown turns back to tatters, her coachmen into mice.

**The clock struck midnight, and the magic was undone.**

“Even if she only got to do it for one night,” Sophie says, covering her mouth with a yawn.

“Are you sleepy?”

“A bit. A lot of ladies wanted to dance with you, Richard.”

“You're not wrong there.”

Sophie folds away her book, and with a sudden burst of intuition, she asks, “How come you didn't dance with Asbel?”

“It's not allowed.”

“Why not?” asks Sophie.

“Ladies dance with gentlemen, _”_ he says.

“But why?” asks Sophie, and  _why indeed_ , wonders Richard.

Sophie's brow creases in confusion and frustration. He's seen that look on her face often, over the past few years. Richard's often thought that if everyone shared Sophie's simple and elegant look on the world, it'd be a far better place.

“Maybe you just need a fairy godmother, Richard.” She says this complete sincerity, and despite his frustration with how this evening's turned out, Richard can't help but smile. He places a fond hand upon her head.

“You might be right.”

“Here you two are.” Sudden light as the table cloth is lifted, and Richard finds himself craning his neck up to see Malik with Asbel, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, any reason you're both skulking under the table?”

“He's hiding from the lady with the swan hat,” Sophie says, tucking her book away into her bag. “She's been following him around all night again.”

Richard sweeps a forelock of hair from his face. “ _Actually_ , I came to keep your company, Sophie.”

Malik chuckles. “Dropping more hints about her eligibility and her empty summer cottage in the woods again, is she?”

“Lady Orlan is rather... persistent,” he admits, and his gaze rises up to meet Asbel's. There's a distant, sad-looking something hooked into the corner of Asbel's smile. Richard wonders if he can see the ridiculousness of it too: he's spent hours politely shooting down Lady Orlan's advances, yet Richard can't share one dance with the man he loves.

In the sad smile Richard sees something else: a glimpse of the Asbel he saw reflected in the window, vanishing under the weight of snow.

A heaviness falls on Richard's shoulders. The light reporte trips of his tongue as he and Malik keep up their familiar banter, but it's without satisfaction. He's tired. He wants to go to bed. Preferably, he wants Asbel to tuck him in.

Sophie looks like she's about to nod off too, and Asbel makes the call. “Let's head up to our rooms, Sophie. It think it's time to call it a night.”

She's too tired to do anything but nod.

As they make their way off, Asbel pauses, slips his hand against Richard's forearm. “Will I see you later?” he asks, not too loud.

“I might be late. You don't need to wait up,” Richard says.

“I will, anyway,” says Asbel.

Watching Asbel's retreating form, Malik's hand on his back surprises him.

“A fairy godmother, huh?” he says.

 

*

 

With Asbel's duties in Lhant in addition to Richard's, there's little time for the two of them to relax. When he's feeling particularly depressed about it, Asbel can't help but think of their responsibilities as a sandwich, with their relationship as a particular thin bit of turkey squeezed inside.

Cheria breaking things off with him, some six months after they returned from Fodra, was the best thing that could have happened to them. After several awkward attempts at kissing and other _normal relationship_ activities, like making small talk that wasn't punctuated with awkward pauses, it'd quickly become apparent things weren't working out.

Cheria had presented the ultimatum. _Asbel, I want you to be honest with me. Do you have feelings for me, or not?_

Asbel had dithered, as he usually did when it came to anything important as feelings. Told Cheria how important she was to him, how much he valued her and their friendship over the years.

Cheria had exhaled the loudest huff ever known to man, told him friendship wasn't the same as love, that he was absolutely unbelievable. Then she packed her bags and told Asbel if he ever managed to figure out what he was he wanted, to send her a bird.

Richard had consoled Asbel about the breakup. Brought Asbel in for a tight embrace and told him how much he wished for Asbel's happiness. And, in the days that followed, Asbel figured out that that happiness hadn't been so far away in the first place.

As usual, the answer had been right in front of him all along.

He presses the back of his palms against his eyes, sending stars shooting across the back of his closed eyelids. Finally, when the clock reads past one, the door to Richard's chambers cracks open. Light spills in from the hallway, illuminating Richard's silhouette, his dress jacket hooked over his shoulder, cravat loose around his neck.

“Asbel,” he calls, very softly, in case he's already asleep. For a brief moment, Asbel considers pretending sleep, _because that's what he'll get for keeping me waiting._ But the sharp boiling point of vindictiveness quickly simmers down into guilt, because it's not Richard's fault. It's not his fault, either. It's just the way things are, and there's no need to punish either of them for it.

“I'm awake,” Asbel replies, glad the darkness can disguise the flush of shame that's risen to his face.

“You didn't need to wait up,” Richard says, the jacket going away in the wardrobe. In the thin silver sliver of moonlight that cuts in through the curtain, he unbuttons his shirt.

Asbel repeats what he said at the ball: “I wanted to.”

Richard slips into his nightshirt. Long billowy sleeves, bare legs, his hair so long now it brushes his collarbone. In that silver sliver of light, Asbel thinks: _how lovely_.

The bed dips on one edge under Richard's weight, and the kiss Richard places on his lips is more full of ardour than he expected. The tired moroseness from the ball is gone, swept aside as easily as Asbel's shirt, whisked up over his head.

Asbel's own frustration and bitterness is snubbed out, two fingers snubbing the burnt down wick of the bedside candle. “I love you,” he tells Richard. Lips too occupied to reply, Richard's reply is in the fierceness of his grasp, the passion of his mouth, the curl of his toes.

 

*

 

Richard would never imagined Malik of all people to have the kind of contacts he introduces, but, as the man tells him, “You meet a lot of interesting people, working a bar.”

 

*

 

A month later, the winter ball is held at the palace, to celebrate the end of the year. Both Asbel and Sophie receive an invite.

“Richard says he has some kind of surprise,” Asbel says. He can't say he's looking forward to another stuffy ball, attempting to blend in with the gentry he's supposed to be a member of, but has never felt a part of. He supposes he spent too many years at the knight academy, and besides that, Lhant is too small, too rural, and too north. Supposedly his peerage never approved of King Ferdinand and his father's close friendship, either, and that feeling hasn't altered in a generation. Lhant is only a day's travel from the capital but to the nobles who live in Barona, you'd think the town was some obscure settlement set out in the boonies.

Before he and Sophie leave, his mother gives him the usual lecture about making a good impression, never mind that he's nearly twenty-three now, instead of a fledgling lord of eighteen. There's the old nag about finding himself a suitable young woman, but by this point, it's almost routine, with as much hope behind it as Kerri's entreaties to _please Asbel clear up your desk it looks like a bomb site._ During Richard's occasional visits to Lhant, he'll sometimes see his mother's gaze lingering on himself and the King and it occurs to Asbel that his mother probably knows. Hubert got his sharp senses from somewhere, after all. But his mother never brings it up, Asbel never mentions it, and the silence is bearable, most of the time.

This winter has been a cold one, and as the carriage rumbles towards the port snow begins to fall.

“It snowed last time we came to Barona too, Asbel,” Sophie says, leaning with her elbows out the window.

“Huh. You're right. Hm... maybe if we're lucky it'll snow so hard no one else will be able to get out of their houses, and we can build a pillow fort at the palace with Richard.”

“And you and Richard can dance together!” says Sophie. Asbel isn't entirely sure where this sentiment is coming from, but before he can question it, Sophie squeezes her eyes closed, lips moving silently.

“What are you doing?”

“Don't interrupt me Asbel,” she warns him. “I'm wishing.”

 _On what_? Asbel would ask, but he does as he's told, and the carriage bumps through fields that slowly, are beginning to turn white.

 

_*_

 

Unfortunately, the snow doesn't get any heavier when Asbel and Sophie reach Barona. And worse news yet: at the ball, pulling at his uncomfortably starched shirt collar, they hear a rumour that King Richard is indisposed.

The banisters are strung with Christmas roses. Tablecloths are laid with intricate geometrical snowflake table cloths, and in the centre of the table is an elaborate ice swan.

But it's just empty noise, without Richard.

“Richard's sick?” asks Sophie, her face falling.

“Let's find out,” says Asbel, striking forward with urgency to the staircase. “We'll split up and look for him.”

Asbel checks the entire party. The ball room, the balcony, the gardens. He's not in his chambers either. Mystified, Asbel ends up back where he started, standing by the grand staircase, wondering if he should just find Sophie and go home. Every so often he's approached by a lady looking for a dance. Normally, he attempts to to employ more tact, but tonight, he turns them down flatly. Watches, distantly, their polite smiles twist into shock, knowing they'll go home to tell everyone about _horribly rude lord Asbel._ Richard would tell him off, if he were here. But Richard's not here, so what's the point?

He feels tired. Richard might have had practice playing at this sort of charade all his life, but Asbel's more comfortable in leathers than velvet, would rather have a sword in his hand instead of a wine glass. Maybe the court's right after all and he is a northern barbarian after all.

All this pomp and pretence, and Asbel feels as though he's fading through thick, heavy snow.

Eyes on the ground, the blue brocade hem of a woman's dress swishes into view. _Here we go again,_ thinks Asbel, as with a heavy tiredness he raises his eyes.

“I'm sorry, but I'm really not dancing with anyone ton----”

The woman has Christmas roses strung into her long blond hair. A silver choker sits at her neck, the same colour as the high-collared and closely fitting gown. There's something about her, about her warm honey coloured eyes, that grabs his attention-- he can't look away.

“Not at all? That's a shame,” says the woman in a low voice. She's surprisingly tall. Asbel has to raise his eyes to look at her. There's a familiar feeling he can't place.

“Have... we met before?”

“I should certainly hope so,” says the woman, as in a forward and utterly familiar gesture, she reaches out to take his hands. Running her silky glove covered thumb over his palm. She laughs, and Asbel knows that laugh anywhere.

“R-Richard?” Asbel splutters.

“I apologise for my lateness. Turns out being a woman takes time.” He lifts the frilly hem of his dress, revealing the lining of a white petticoat, and what Asbel is pretty sure are a pair of stockings and garter. “It's not too much, is it?”

The colour has risen high up onto Asbel's face. He can feel it burning at his ears. Swallowing, he says, “N-not at all. You look great, Richard.” He already can't help but think of what Richard will look out of that gown, roses tumbling out of messy hair and petticoats hitched up over silk stockings. He manages to retrieve his mind from out of the gutter. “But Richard, why?”

Is this some sort of dare he'd arranged with Malik? He had seen Richard and captain doing an awful lot of whispering at the last ball.

“Best keep the _Richard_ thing to yourself, Asbel. The King's supposed to be in bed with a bad headcold tonight,” Richard says.

“Oh! Sure.” The local paper, the Barona Gazette, loved printing personality articles about Richard, but KING IN FROCK is one he rather they skipped on.

“As to why,” Richard continues, once again reaching out his hand for Asbel's. “I wanted to dance with you, Asbel.”

He remembers what Sophie says, about her wish.

Asbel closes his hand over Richard's. Richard is beaming. “Well, after you went to so much trouble, I could hardly turn you down, my lady.”

 

*

 

It was amazing, what one could do with a few creams and pastes. In just under an hour, Malik's acquaintance had smoothed out all the angular lines of his face, bringing out the soft femininity that seemed to sit just under the surface.

The idea of walking out in front of his entire court like this was terrifying. Yet there was a thrill behind it too, especially as he'd appeared on the grand staircase and seen eyes turn to look at him. Murmurs of _who is that? Have you seen her before?_

Even better had been Asbel's face as his mouth had dropped when he'd figured out who he was.

Asbel was always a little slow at figuring out his disguises.

Richard takes his hand, and lets Asbel lead him out into the centre of the room. His lover put a hand on his waist, and as the next song starts they begin a slow walz.

“Sorry,” Asbel says, as he steps on Richard's gown, jaw colouring. “You know I've never been amazing at this. Anybody else in this room probably would have been a better dance partner than me.”

“I'd rather dance with you than any of them,” Richard says, and although it doesn’t stop Asbel from treading on Richard two more times, he smiles and relaxes, and the hand on Richard's waist no longer feels like a rigid iron bar.

“I feel like everyone's looking at us,” Asbel says.

“Good,” says Richard.

When the dance ends, Asbel's hand lingers. It doesn’t matter, Richard thinks, that they only have this one night. Afterwards, they'll have to go back to being friends, at least for appearances. It won't change his feelings, or Asbel's. The snow remains beautiful, even after it melts away and is forgotten.

“Would it be alright to kiss you?” Asbel asks, and it's almost shy.

“A true gentlemen through and through,” Richard says, before adding, “I thought you'd never ask.”

In the middle of the ball, Asbel captures Richard's lips in his.

 

*

 

“So Richard found his fairy godmother, after all,” Sophie says.

She and Malik stand in the crowd in the garden, as the year's end fireworks bloom in the sky. Snow is falling in gentle flurries. On the balcony, completely wrapped up in one another and oblivious, Richard and Asbel are watching too. Asbel's given Richard his jacket to wear, his arm is around his shoulder. A big one goes off with a chorus of of _oooh, ahh,_ and Malik chuckles.

“It looks that way, doesn't it?”

Behind them Sophie hears someone whisper, “Who is that with Lord Asbel? I didn't think he had a beau....”

Malik exchanges a mischievous grin with Sophie. She grins back.

“Looks like Lady Tiger Festival is getting cosy with Lord Asbel, hm?” he says, rather louder than necessary.

It doesn’t take her long to catch on. “Lady Tiger Festival looks very pretty tonight,” she replies, raising her voice.

The fireworks bathe the crowd, the castle, the city in technicolour hues. The castle bells sing, ringing in the new year.

 

*

 

The next morning, it was all the citizens of Windor could talk about. The young lord who had spurned the advances of each and every woman who had approached him, seduced by a mysterious beauty. Just who was the mystery woman at the ball who had stolen Lord Asbel's chilly heart?

King Richard received his daily copy of the gazette on his desk with his morning cup of tea , and unfolding it to read the headline, spluttered his drink all over the broadsheet.

It read:

**LOVE BLOOMS AT KING'S BALL FOR LORD ASBEL AND LADY TIGER FESTIVAL**

/END


End file.
